


but moonbeams, sadly, will not survive in jars.

by spikedapple



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikedapple/pseuds/spikedapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Hisoka sees him, Chrollo is wiping blood off his fists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but moonbeams, sadly, will not survive in jars.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from Roger McGough's poem, The Way Things Are (but the poem itself has nothing to do with the story, I just had to cover it for school and slapped that particular line on as the title, so). Um, yeah! So I've been having a serious case of writer's block for the past several months, and this is my attempt at writing myself out of it. Most of this was written at fuck o' clock in the morning, so please take this with a grain of salt ! As for the word count... Honestly, this wasn't supposed to ever break 5k, but I'm in rare pair hell so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

i.

The first time Hisoka sees him, Chrollo is wiping blood off his fists. He's standing over another boy – tall and built, a senior maybe; unconscious and corpse-like in its stillness – as he runs a crisp handkerchief over his knuckles, the iron-scented crimson stark against white. Unscathed, there's a practiced nonchalance about Chrollo's posture – methodical; _bored_ , even – but Hisoka is sharp, picks up the hidden bits and pieces like a predator in the dead of night. 

Though suppressed, Hisoka sees the blood lust as it radiates in degrees and latitudes off every inch of Chrollo's being – but even that is not what draws Hisoka in.

Chrollo turns, eyes meeting Hisoka's, before he pockets the handkerchief and walks away. The look is lazy and passing, but Hisoka sees it for what it is – sees the sharp way Chrollo's eyes flash. Hisoka doesn't quite know what to call it – not weak enough to call a spark, not entirely a fire – but he recognizes shattered glass and bruised fists and the wryness of a bloody smile, and before he realizes it, Hisoka feels a kinship forming thick beneath his ribs.

He stares at Chrollo's retreating back as he drifts down the hallway, phantom-like. Chrollo doesn't turn back.

Hisoka knows better than to go running after ghosts. He's had his own fair share of run-ins with the ethereal, the otherwordly, with trophies of vomit and broken bones to show. Rough hands have taught him to still his shaking body, to mask the smell of open wounds with too-sweet strawberry.

(Yet: the monsters on his lungs tell him it's fate, the demons in his head dare him to tempt it.)

He smiles. Hisoka's never been one to learn from mistakes.

  
  


ii.

The old Science block, Hisoka learns, is where Chrollo spends most of his time when he's off skipping class. The building is abandoned and crumbling, fenced off from the rest of the school. There'd been multiple incidents years ago, details murky, laced with misconduct, before the funding was cut off and the building was left to rot. White paint peeling off in flakes, walls strangled by overgrown ivy. Graffitied warnings bleed down in red. It's a cute hideout, Hisoka decides.

Hisoka steps in, movements silent and graceful. His eyes travel quickly, scanning the area, and Hisoka barely manages to conceal his surprise when he catches Machi watching him. She leans against the chipped wall – face half-hidden in shadows – arms crossed and eyes unimpressed.

“I don't suppose you're here to welcome me?”, Hisoka asks, tone light and teasing as he closes the distance between them.

Machi's eyes are calculating but not entirely cold as she watches him. She's trying to decipher his intentions, figure him out, Hisoka figures, and he wouldn't expect any less from her. Their eyes connect, gold against sapphire, and he flashes her his most winning smile. Machi frowns, “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. I hear this is the place all the little thieves and murderers hide”, Hisoka drawls, turning his attention away from Machi to seek out his prey. He feels her eyes narrow before he even sees it; with an aggrandized sigh, Hisoka says, “A joke, Machi. I was joking.”

He brushes past her as his eyes adjust to the dark.

Broken tiles, dust-ridden rubble, long tables standing on shaky legs. There's a raised platform in the front, a dry erase board hanging loosely behind it, and it's there that Hisoka finds what he came here for. Chrollo's seated in a ratty-looking wheeled armchair, eyes focused on the ridiculously thick book in his lap. His body language drips in carelessness, but Hisoka's not naive enough to believe Chrollo's anything but all too aware of his presence.

Hisoka's eyes trace Chrollo's body – the soft outline of his thighs, his long, spindly fingers, Chrollo's pale face a sharp contrast against the dark of the room. Beneath thick eyelashes, his glassy eyes flicker up to glimpse at Hisoka. It's barely there for more than half a second, but Hisoka catches it the moment it appears and, parasite-like, latches on.

Hisoka's smile widens, his pink tongue peeking out to lick against his upper lip.

Machi catches the motion. Her glare turns dangerous and sharp, protective, but she says nothing.

  
  


iii.

Hisoka sees all of them the next time he slips into the building. _The Phantom Troupe_ , he's heard students say, always in harsh whispers and nervous glances.

Initially, Hisoka had thought the name to be a little too melodramatic for a group of high school delinquents, but Hisoka now understands, because they are nothing if not an enigma, mysteries shrouded within mysteries, truths so muddled they may as well be rumours. They all have the same look in their eyes – a silent fire, a desire for pandemonium – and Hisoka knows he would've enjoyed drinking it all in, would've loved the way fists felt as they left dents and bruises and the delicious _crunch_ of shattering wrists, had he not been so focused on his target.

He feels their eyes follow him as he makes his way to the front of the room.

Chrollo's still in his armchair. Hisoka's standing right before Chrollo when he finally looks up. Hisoka hasn't really gotten the chance to properly take in Chrollo's features, hasn't ever gotten close enough, but Chrollo, he decides, is _pretty_. Hair falling into his face, high cheeks and soft, parted lips, wide eyes framed by dark lashes; doll-like. Hisoka feels something hot burn deep within him, iron in his veins, because he knows his own habits, is aware that he's much too fond of breaking the prettier toys.

Chrollo's looking at him as well, however, and Hisoka realizes with alarming clarity that Chrollo's child-like eyes are experienced in disguising scrutiny for curiosity. A fairly dangerous trait, deception. Chrollo tilts his head slightly to the left, “Am I supposed to take this as your formal application?”

Hisoka laughs, low and quietly menacing. He props a hand against his hip as he says, “I didn't think there were any spots left.”

Someone shouts _there aren't_ from behind (Phinks, maybe), but Chrollo just looks at him in quiet consideration. Hisoka feels hyper-aware of Chrollo's eyes as they roam his body, sharpening his senses like knives, and when their eyes finally meet again, Hisoka sees himself reflected in deep obsidian – mischief and corpses and bloodshed and pyromania – and he barely stops himself from lunging at Chrollo right then and there.

(Rash and impatient and headstrong. stupid stupid stupid. Good things come to those who wait, yet the skeletons in your closet already thirst for air.)

“Actually”, Chrollo says a beat later, voice smooth and electric as he rests his chin against an open palm, “I think we've got room for one extra.”

  
  


iv.

It's a sticky, humid kind of Tuesday afternoon when Hisoka, pleasantly enough, finds out he's got Japanese History with Chrollo. Hisoka wasn't aware that Chrollo showed up for classes – sometimes wonders if he's even actually _registered_ at this school – so it's something of a quiet blessing Hisoka decided to attend today's lesson. The teacher, along with the rest of the class, seem to think otherwise, though, if the nearly tangible fear choking the room in a vice-like grip is anything to go by.

The spot behind Chrollo's is empty, and Hisoka doesn't miss the way Chrollo's lips stretch into a quiet smile, laced with something suspiciously akin to schadenfreude, as Hisoka brushes past him to take the seat. Hisoka tries to hide his own smile.

The lesson begins and the teacher's fingers are trembling, but Hisoka can't bring himself to really care – not when his prey is sitting just a little bit out of reach. _Chrollo_ , Hisoka remembers how the name rolled off his tongue the first time he'd learned it, smooth as silk, slippery as oil. He had beaten the information out of a third year the day after their initial encounter, and the name rolls around the recesses of his mind more often than he'd care to admit ever since.

Hisoka rips a piece of paper off his notebook and scrawls _fancy seeing you here,_ before folding the note up and tossing it over Chrollo's shoulder to land squarely on his desk.

The reply comes three and a half minutes later. _I could say the same for you. Didn't know you had it in you to show up for classes._

Hisoka looks up from under his lashes to peer at Chrollo's back. He's slender, narrow shoulders concealing solid muscle, and Hisoka can't help but wonder how it'd feel to push him up against a desk, no, a wall; to claw at his firm chest, streaks of crimson against pale, pale porcelain, to have those blood-stained hands roam his body. They'd be a house on fire – destructive and violent and burning. (Passionate.)

Hisoka stops himself from moaning out loud. The thought is nearly as arousing as wrapping his hands around Chrollo's neck promises to be. There's wreckage and waste before anything's even begun.

_There's a lot you don't know about me_ , Hisoka writes. He adds a winking emoticon for effect.

Chrollo's reply doesn't come, but Hisoka can see the amusement playing on his lips from the corner of his eye.

  
  


v.

“So”, Chrollo says, voice faraway and dreamy as he moves his bishop across the checkered board. Hisoka recognizes the tone to be the one Chrollo takes on when he wants someone to think he isn't concentrating, distracted – he uses it fairly often, broadcasting false weaknesses. “What exactly makes you so interested in me?”

The chess board is stolen – a fact Hisoka figures out before Chrollo bothers to let him know. Its solid marble surface is chipped slightly at the edges, and gives off an air of worn nobility, a relic of the nouveau riche – something to be shown off, rather than used. The thick board sits heavily on the layer of grime and dust blanketing the surface of a shaky table. Behind Chrollo, Hisoka can see the rest of the troupe's intent eyes trail his every move, ready to attack at a moment's notice.

Hisoka laughs, the sound low and sensual as it echoes off the hollow walls. “You could tell?”

Chrollo gives him a pointed look. Hisoka can tell he's resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Chrollo brushes loose, dark strands behind his ear with one hand and moves his knight with the other. Deadpan, Chrollo says, “Even the dead would be able to.”

Hisoka thinks he hears someone snort from further back. Hisoka considers himself a fairly decent chess player, able to manipulate pieces as well as he can people, but Chrollo's been a bit of an uphill battle, scattering traps and false mirrors in dark corners. A conductor in his dissonant orchestra. Hisoka prefers it this way – there's hardly any satisfaction in conquering a simple challenge, after all.

“There's no point in answering your question”, Hisoka says with a low laugh. A pause as he moves his queen, thoughtful. “Not yet, anyway.”

Chrollo hums in response. Hisoka's eyes leave the board to stare at Chrollo's, but their gazes don't meet. Hisoka watches as Chrollo rests his face against the flat of his palm, his face concentrated and calculating. There's that _look_ in Chrollo's eyes, the one Hisoka had caught and clung to – it's muted and diluted and not nearly as fierce as Hisoka knows it _can_ be, but it's there and Hisoka can't help the low stirring deep in his stomach.

He looks at Chrollo's parted lips. _God_ , what he'd give to make those pretty, pretty lips bleed, to watch them split and swell before he covers them with his own. He'd lap up the red as he bites down harder at Chrollo's lips, would savor every sound he'd make, and before Hisoka realizes it, he's wondering what Chrollo would taste like.

“Checkmate”, Chrollo says. He's staring at Hisoka now, a knowing tilt to his head.

Hisoka maintains their eye contact for a moment longer, trying to gauge at Chrollo's thoughts, before he returns his attention to the board. It's true that Chrollo's got Hisoka's king cornered, but it's a move Hisoka knows he'd have seen a mile away had his mind not wandered. A loss with nothing gained from it. Pity.

Hisoka moves to stand as he dusts himself off. “Next time, then.”

  
  


vi.

Hisoka isn't particularly fond of Literature, and the teacher, unlike most, doesn't seem to be completely unsettled by his presence, so instead of heading to class, Hisoka climbs up the dusty stairs to the roof. The first time he'd been up here, there'd been several delinquents – all seniors, all bigger than he – but he had settled that fairly quickly, a pool of blood under his feet, none of it his own. Since then, the roof is usually left empty.

Today, Hisoka finds Chrollo.

“My, my. Have you been looking for me?”, Hisoka asks as he closes the distance between them. “I'm honored.”

Chrollo's sat comfortably in a shady corner, face draped in gray-blue shadows and school tie hanging loose around his neck like a noose. There's a book in his lap – another absurdly thick one, Hisoka wonders where he gets the time to finish all of them – but Chrollo's eyes are watching Hisoka's every step. He closes the book gently as he responds, “Don't flatter yourself. I used to come up here all the time before you decided to mark your territory and lurk around.”

“Really?”, Hisoka asks with a raised eyebrow, “The first time I came up here, there'd been no one but a bunch of thugs. Boring ones.”

Chrollo lets a soft chuckle out at that. The sound is light and innocent.

“They were there to fight me”, Chrollo says. His thin legs unfold as he stands, hands moving to pick at invisible lint. Chrollo's looking past Hisoka, the curl of his eyelashes leaving shadows like spider legs against his pale cheeks, and his voice takes a sudden change, tone light yet dangerous and filled with omens as he continues, “Much like you are.”

Hisoka's shoulders tense involuntarily for a half second before he wills himself to relax. So he knows. Hisoka can't say he's all that surprised, honestly, Chrollo's much too sharp and Hisoka's been intentionally tactless with his charade. He's playing at being a spider, eyes hungry as his prey curiously crawl into his sticky web – tangling, trapped – but this time, he's going up against another one of his kind. The food chain can only exist with balance, and Hisoka supposes it's a dangerous game to be playing, pitting two alphas against one another, but it all makes it _that_ much more interesting.

“So you weren't oblivious. Does that mean I've been kicked out?”, Hisoka asks with a pout.

Chrollo's eyes finally move to look at Hisoka, but there's a careful lack of expression. Hisoka recognizes curiosity, though, almost as if Chrollo's trying to decide what to do with him, much like a child trying to find room on a cramped shelf for his new plaything. His voice is as smooth as it always is, “Not exactly. I'm just letting you know I won't give you the fight you're looking for.”

Hisoka leans against the cool concrete wall. “And what _am_ I looking for?”

Chrollo sighs like knows Hisoka's intentionally being obtuse, and the sound is a deceptively gentle contrast to how Chrollo's entire body language drips in blood lust. He props his arms up against the railing and stares over the school compound, but as much as he tries to hide it, tries to tuck it away on the highest shelf, Hisoka can tell that Chrollo is as itching for a chance to fight as he is. He's got a slight frown on his lips, his fingers drumming an off-beat rhythm on iron – constraint and control. Patience. Hisoka understands the feeling, but he thinks he's done quite enough waiting.

He walks towards Chrollo, steps clicking and even. “What would you do if I attacked you right now?”

Chrollo isn't looking at Hisoka. His deep, sunken eyes, laced with purple crescents stamped beneath them, have a misty glaze of unreality as they focus on the world below. Even his voice sounds distorted, like he isn't a part of this moment in time, “I'd fight back. But it'd be deeply unsatisfying for both of us.”

Chrollo is right.

Hisoka lunges for him, hands balled into fists and body ignited with excitement, the pressure of compressed desire spilling out through the spaces between his fingers – overflowing. Chrollo steps away at the last second – intentionally, Hisoka realizes – and his motions are fluid as he moves to counterattack. His grip is tight around Hisoka's arm, but Hisoka can tell that it's sloppy. Unpracticed or lazy or overconfident, he doesn't really know.

Hisoka is a flurry of previously restrained nerves, body acting on its own, and Chrollo reacts accordingly, like clockwork, defensive in intent. It's a game of hide and seek, and with every slight move and missed punch and last-minute trick, Hisoka feels anger bubble through his body and cloud his head, filling him up and threatening to strangle him. He had expected fire – everything Hisoka had ever related to Chrollo; ablaze and cackling and unbelievable – but this felt like water, a waterfall. A smooth push and pull, never breaking as it washes over jagged rocks.

Hisoka finally lands a punch, one squarely in the jaw, and it sends Chrollo stumbling. His reactions are always quicker than average, like a metronome set to an irregularly quick tempo, but before his body gets a chance to pick a course of action, Hisoka knees him in the stomach and pushes him to the ground, hands firm and flat against Chrollo's chest. Hisoka's legs move to straddle his torso as his hands, itching for a chance to play with his latest toy, curl around a pale, fragile-looking neck. They tighten minutely, before relaxing.

“What's your full name?”, Hisoka asks, suddenly.

Chrollo's eyes are unreadable, blank and dark like pools, but Hisoka catches the amusement flickering behind. The look of someone who knew they weren't in danger – Hisoka doesn't know what to make of that. “Chrollo Lucifer.”

“Lucifer”, Hisoka repeats, hands leaving Chrollo's neck completely to seek newer, unexplored places. They trace his collarbones and drag down towards his chest, pressing hard and greedy. Hisoka gets lost in it all, a little bit, and he sounds far away as he continues, “Like the angel.”

Chrollo barks out a rough-sounding laugh, vibrations thrumming through his chest. “Most people would say like the devil.”

Hisoka hums, and his fingers move to ghost over cloth-covered nipples. He runs his hands down Chrollo's sides, notes the goosebumps prickling beneath the white of his neck. Chrollo's hands come up, suddenly, to stop Hisoka's, but the movements are inattentive and somewhat detached, and Hisoka easily pins his hands above his head.

Leaning close, Hisoka breathes down against Chrollo's jaw. Voice raspy and languid, he says, “You put up quite a shitty fight. Do you _really_ think I'm letting you get away with it?”

“I already warned you beforehand”, Chrollo replies, not missing a beat, and the edges of Hisoka's lips twitch at the breathless quality of his voice.

He drinks in the sight under him – Chrollo, laid out and lax beneath him, eyes hooded and lips parted, the exposed neck, tempting and promising. He leans in and rests his lips against Chrollo's throat, gently, at first, then increasing in intensity to the accelerating tandem of his heartbeat. Chrollo shifts beneath him, and Hisoka bites down. Ugly purple clash against porcelain, the beginnings of a bruise already forming on gentle skin, Hisoka's sticky lip gloss leaving a shiny imprint.

“Marked and panting”, Hisoka drawls, eyes alight in the fire he couldn't find during the fight before, “You look so good like this, _boss_.”

Chrollo's eyes meet direct contact – unwavering; dark, blown pupils sparking like electricity. Hisoka's about to say more when Chrollo, unexpectedly, pushes him off with a force previously suppressed and pins him down. Chrollo holds Hisoka an arm's length away, using enough strength to keep him from getting back up, and Hisoka notices that Chrollo looks different from this angle – fiercer, sharper, the flip side of a coin – and he can't decide which he likes better.

“Mmm, this works too”, Hisoka says, tongue peeking out to lick against his lips. He sees the tension seep out of Chrollo's entire being, bleeding.

Chuckling, Chrollo says, “You really need to learn when to stop talking.”

  
  


vii.

“Why's everyone staring at Hisoka?”, Shizuku asks, suddenly. Her voice is as painfully confused as it always is, and if Hisoka hadn't known any better, he'd have guessed that she's been intentionally obtuse. Seated on one of the long lab tables, legs crossed at the ankles as she looks from one person to the next, though, it becomes increasingly obvious that this isn't the case with her.

Phinks pinches the bridge of his nose and Feitan rolls his eyes.

“We're trying to decide on the best way to completely destroy him. Burning him alive and dismemberment are currently tied at the top”, Machi says. Her sharp blue eyes are narrowed into a dangerous glare, poisonous, as they follow each and every one of Hisoka's slightest movements. Hisoka doesn't miss the glint of the needle in her hands. Leaning against the crumbling plaster, Machi has been busy stitching up a tear on the sleeve of her uniform (“I fell”, Machi had said, but her eyes suggested otherwise), though Hisoka knows she's capable of much more than just sewing with her needles.

Smiling at her, Hisoka says, “Ooh, kinky.”

Machi's lips immediately curl in disgust, but before she manages to get a word out, Shizuku continues, “Wait – what? Why are we trying to kill Hisoka?” A pause. “And both those methods are kind of inefficient, I think. And if it's Hisoka, I think we'd maybe need danchou for this.”

“ _Fuck_ no!”, Phinks shouts, shooting up to stand as he points an accusing finger Hisoka's way, “We're not letting this fuckclown anywhere _near_ him again! Not after the shit you pulled yesterday!”

Hisoka asks “And what exactly did I do?” the same time Shizuku pipes up with a “Why doesn't anyone tell me anything.”

Phinks starts shouting at Hisoka. Franklin pats Shizuku on the shoulder.

  
  


viii.

Chrollo's tongue is bitter and poisonous. Later, when they're both haphazardly buttoning wrinkled shirts, Hisoka finds out it's because Chrollo smokes.

He pulls out a pack from his pocket and lights a cigarette up. The brings the white stick to his lips and takes a long drag. The cigarette dangles between Chrollo's spindly fingers, its amber tip alight. In the still, stale air, there's something captivating – hypnotic even – about the way loose wisps of smoke twist and curl, framing Chrollo's pale, pretty face in a way nearly corrupt.

Hisoka smiles; it makes a beautiful picture, if not much else.

“Smoking kills you that much faster”, Hisoka says, tone dry and saccharine-tinged. He moves to sit next to Chrollo, motions fluid and easy, and his smile widens when he sees Chrollo tense up. The tension bleeds out a mere half second later, though, Chrollo's body lazy and leaving no traces of the earlier movement as he takes another drag.

The smoke leaves his parted lips like a whisper. “Concerned about me?”

From the corner of his eye, Hisoka thinks he spots a sardonic smile on Chrollo's lips. He resists the urge to bite it off him. The air is dry and the evening breeze is warm as it whistles past them. The roof is empty, as it always is, and Hisoka's tone is light as he says, “Only concerned that your habit will kill you before I get the chance to.”

Chrollo laughs. It's genuine, Hisoka thinks – or, at the very least, more so than the wry laughs Chrollo gives when he's got Hisoka pushed against a wall – and it forms crinkles along the sides of his eyes. “You're rather fixed on that, aren't you?”

“Not really”, Hisoka answers honestly.

Chrollo doesn't say anything in response, and they sit there in silence for a while longer. Hisoka's beginning to feel the ache of what promises to be an impressive, ugly bruise on his tailbone, and the low buzz of blood lust that runs beneath his skin quiets down for a bit, seemingly satisfied with today's events. Nicotine fills his lungs, and for a moment, Hisoka imagines he's sitting with Death.

“Why do you wear makeup?”, Chrollo asks suddenly, head tilting towards Hisoka. Curiosity is written plainly across his features, but Hisoka detects the small undertone of a muted _something_.

Nevertheless, Hisoka's smile is amused as he replies, “Does there need to be any particular reason?”

“No”, Chrollo says. He's looking into Hisoka's eyes, delving into the gold like he's looking for something. “You just don't seem like the kind of person who does something without purpose.”

The pale foundation feels heavy against Hisoka's skin. He forces a laugh, and applauds himself at how natural it sounds.

“It's cute how much you think of me”, he says, “But you're wrong. I'm nothing special.”

It's obvious from the way Chrollo's eyes are still searching his out that he doesn't believe him, but Hisoka's smile remains pretty and firmly etched into his face, eyes betraying nothing. Eventually, Chrollo breathes out, “You're the last person I'd expect to ever hear those words from.”

Hisoka plucks the cigarette from Chrollo's fingers and tosses it over the edge of the roof.

  
  


vx.

Unexpectedly, Hisoka bumps into Chrollo in the hallway. He'd been planning to skip gym – too many violent impulses, too little worthwhile targets – and find someone willing to fight him, or, at the very least, a nice place to relax, and he can only imagine that Chrollo had been headed to the old Science block.

Their eyes meet, a split-second of genuine surprise washing over either of them, before the familiar, dangerous glint returns, words exchanged but unspoken, and they find themselves pushing into an empty classroom. Hisoka throws the first punch – he nearly always does – and Chrollo, in turn, dodges before moving to counter. Hisoka knows how this plays out. They move like electricity and touch like fire, but it's not nearly enough.

Hisoka wants an inferno. He wants explosions and wreckage and death and blood, but he doesn't quite know how to get it – not yet, at least. For now, though, with Chrollo pinned neatly against the dusty plaster, he thinks he's got a momentary distraction.

“That was pathetic”, Hisoka says playfully, laughing as he breathes against Chrollo's cheek, “Put your heart into it.”

He feels Chrollo shrug a shoulder. “Maybe I wanted to lose.”

Hisoka contemplates a response, before deciding against it. Instead, he slowly drops to his knees, fingers running down Chrollo's sides, eyes never leaving Chrollo's own dark ones. There's something magnetic about them, those eyes, like gravity itself – Hisoka can't help but feel drawn to them, weighed in. He watches the subtle changes, fascinated; mild confusion to curiosity to a quiet burning lust.

Hisoka's lips are inches away from his crotch when Chrollo says, “What are you doing.”

Instead of replying, Hisoka hums as he pulls down the zipper of Chrollo's increasingly tight uniform pants. He's already half hard, Hisoka notes with a grin, and when he looks back up, Chrollo – eyebrows knitted and soft lips parted, breathing hard but short – makes the perfect picture. Hisoka toys with the waistband of Chrollo's boxers before slowly, tantalizingly, agonizingly slowly, pulling them down to join his pants in a puddle around his ankles.

“Helping you release stress”, Hisoka drawls as his hands work to coax Chrollo into full hardness. His voice tinkles like laughter, and Hisoka tears his eyes away from Chrollo's flushed erection to look at him, “ _Danchou_.”

“Shut up”, Chrollo says, but it comes out as a whisper. Hisoka finds that he isn't the only one doing the watching – Chrollo's eyes are intense and unwavering, even as they cloud in lust.

Hisoka complies. He tongues at the slit, before slowly dragging his tongue along the sides of his cock. It's pretty and red and doesn't taste much like anything at all, but Hisoka notices how Chrollo's breathing is shaky and detached, staccato-like. Hisoka moves to kiss at the head, grinning into the sickeningly gentle motion, before he finally sucks it into his hot mouth. He gives it a hard suck, the noise loud and sloppy, and Chrollo lets out a choked off noise.

Hisoka would smile if he weren't so preoccupied. He tries taking in Chrollo's full length, but he's out of practice and giddy and running on nerves. Hisoka pulls off with a pop. Chrollo makes a noise at the back of his throat, but Hisoka just licks his lips and slowly sucks at the head before settling into a rhythm only he can decipher – he still can't fit all of it into his mouth, but it's quick where it should've been mild, and slow at the worst of times. It's a new brand of torture Hisoka's orchestrated just for him.

Hisoka hollows his cheeks then, quickens his pace by the slightest bit as his hands come up to fondle with Chrollo's balls, and it's then that Chrollo's resolve finally cracks and he lets out a moan. Hisoka's arousal spikes, the sound sending sparks beneath his skin, but before he gets a chance to act on it, Chrollo suddenly fists his hand in Hisoka's hair, pulling at the dyed strands like a lifeline as he thrusts into Hisoka's hot mouth. Hisoka's surprised, but decides he shouldn't be. Chrollo sets a steady pace, a clear contrast to Hisoka's intentionally unreadable one, rough hands tight as he lets out another shaky moan, probably without realizing it.

Chrollo is rough and thoughtless and lust-driven, pushing Hisoka back with every thurst before yanking him by his hair. Hisoka can't say it's the most comfortable blowjob he's ever given, but he'd be lying if he said being manhandled like this didn't do things to him. It only takes Chrollo a couple more thrusts before he comes, remembering to pull out halfway. Some of the sticky white substance end up on Hisoka's lips and chin, but Hisoka barely pays attention to it as he watches Chrollo's face crumple in pleasure. His long, thick eyelashes flutter against high flushed cheeks, and Hisoka notices how swollen Chrollo's lips look from biting them down too hard – he must've had hell holding down those delicious sounds, pretending not to like it as much as he did – and Hisoka's own erection suddenly feels unbearable in his too-tight pants.

Chrollo leans against the wall before he slides down to sit against the tiled floor, movements still maintaining an air of grace even with his dick out. Hisoka could care less, though. He unzips his pants and pulls out his cock without wasting another second as his hands work in steady strokes. He's breathing hard, nearly panting, and in shaky movements, he shuffles over to corner Chrollo before coming on his face.

Chrollo's eyes are shut and he makes a sound that Hisoka can't quite decipher, something between a whimper and a growl, and Hisoka wants to burst out laughing because Chrollo is still so aggravatingly beautiful even with come dripping down his cheek – fuck, _more so_ than usual, in Hisoka's honest opinion. He wants so badly, he wants so _much_. He wants to lick the come off his face and push harder and break his arm and pull at his hair and fuck him over a table and he wants to destroy him.

Instead, Hisoka leans in to kiss him, slow and sloppy. He can't tell if it's Chrollo or himself he's tasting on his tongue, but either way, he can't get enough of it.

  
  


x.

“What exactly _is_ it that you want from Chrollo?”, Machi asks. Her voice is calm, but there's the underlying tension that warns of the storm brewing beneath her deep eyes and pursed lips, drawling like a tenor. She's much too suspicious for her own good, Hisoka thinks, but then again, he hasn't been the most subtle about it, especially if the rest of the troupe have already caught on.

Perhaps the hickeys had been a little too much to ignore (?).

Feigning nonchalance, Hisoka pulls at his own collar, hoping to obscure the purple marring his own skin. Machi narrows her eyes.

“Honestly”, Hisoka says, in a tone that isn't very honest at all, “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

Machi rolls her eyes and recrosses her legs, dangling them off the roof's railing. Her tone is difficult to read when she says: “I know you came up here to see him.”

Hisoka contemplates playing the ignorance card, but then he realizes it's _Machi_ he's talking to, and that there'd be no point, really. She's quick and sharp and dangerous, and had he not met Chrollo on that one fated day, she might've been the most interesting specimen he's yet to meet. So, Hisoka says, “Are you worried about him?”

He's still smiling – the aggravating grin he knows she absolutely cannot stand – and the pale pink gloss feels sticky against his lips. Something flashes across Machi's eyes, fish-like, but Hisoka can't quite pinpoint it. There's silence for a beat longer.

“No”, Machi decides. A pause. “Chrollo is more than capable of taking care of himself.”

Hisoka's about to press the issue further when Machi abruptly hops off, landing solidly on the floor with both legs as she strides towards Hisoka. Inches apart, Hisoka has to look down to meet her eyes, but even then, the intensity burning behind cool sapphire is enough to remind him that bodies are mere vessels, that strength has no indicator.

She stabs a black, manicured fingernail into his chest. “So, no, I'm _not_ worried. I _am,_ however, pretty fucking angry. I don't know what the fuck you're planning, but if you do a thing to him, I'll make you regret every single day of your life.”

Hisoka's smile widens.

  
  


xi.

His hands are shaking. Tiny tremors prickle from under his skin, blurring the lines between reality, trembling. They're cold. Hisoka doesn't quite know why; he'd always had warm hands – hot, if he got excited. They're sticky and sweaty and he can't stop the shaking and it's – _oh_. There's – there's a beautiful shade of red colouring the pale of his palms. The colour darkens in the deep marks of his heartline. Truly a work of art.

 _Who is the artist_ , Hisoka wants to ask. There's broken glass and a cracked mirror and the smell of rotting. More red.

There's a body on the ground, framed by the iridescence of shattered pieces. Hisoka draws closer, steps casual but respectfully slow, solemn in the presence of such avant garde genius. One step, two, and Hisoka sees it now, the finishing touch – there's a small, silver _something_ protruding out of the corpse's stomach, tearing through like a creature would the ocean, graceful.

With hands still shaking, Hisoka pulls it out. It makes a strange squelching noise as it detaches, and as Hisoka brings the piece of metal closer to his face to observe, he realizes that it's a knife. A rather good one. The artist spared no expenses. It's a shame that organic art cannot be preserved, Hisoka would've quite liked to have kept that shockingly beautiful body. It looked _so_ much like someone he knew.

  
  


xii.

The rain falls like a blanket, suffocating. Hisoka doesn't know why exactly he's running to the old Science block, but it's magnetic and enticing and Hisoka thinks he finally understands what it means to lose control of yourself, to have your senses so clouded and murky they seem to swim through nebulas. His hands are shaking even as he pushes open the door.

It's dark. Bathed in shadows, Hisoka pretends there isn't copper under his fingernails, pretends he can't smell the stench of death playing a frivolous game of hide and seek on his skin under the guise of rain.

“What are you doing here?”, a smooth voice cuts through the density of the room, clear even against an orchestra of rain, and Hisoka figures that of _course_ it'd be Chrollo who decides to lurk in his play house even when classrooms are empty and hallways whisper, of course it'd be him who'd see Hisoka, see his monsters as they push and crawl and climb their way out of his body (a vessel), black sludge sticky in their wake – it had always been Chrollo, after all, always will be.

Chrollo tilts his head to the side, and Hisoka's fingers twitch.

“I killed someone”, Hisoka says. His voice is light, rising like hot air. (To keep it afloat, he has set himself on fire.) He hides his hands behind his back and presses crescents into his wrists. He's smiling as he says: “Someone – important. Maybe.”

Chrollo says nothing. He watches Hisoka, even as they both drown in black and blue, and Hisoka feels as he's being cut apart, a surgical knife sharp and precise as it tears purposely jagged lines through glass, tapping and cracking and trying its damnest not to break – the dissection of the human condition. Fragile. Hisoka makes out the outline of Chrollo's pale fingers in the flickering shock of passing lightning.

“That's nice”, Chrollo says, eventually. His tone is careless, and for that alone, Hisoka knows Chrollo's already discovered too much. Chrollo's eyes are empty pools as they reflect Hisoka's, and as he finally turns away to look out a cracked window, Hisoka's lungs ache and ribs crack as they see Ghost-Him float away and out of existence. “I figured you'd get to that eventually. Those bruises must've come from somewhere, after all.”

Hisoka's breath hitches in his throat. His thoughts, now tangible and prodding at his skin, are impulsive and violent. “I'm leaving. There just isn't anything much to do here anymore”, Hisoka says with a shrug he isn't sure Chrollo caught, “I'm a wanderer at heart, honestly.”

Chrollo hums in response, and another streak of white bounces off his glassy pupils.

“You should come with me”, his demons say, before Hisoka gets the chance to silence them.

The rain crashes down like a cry for help.

Chrollo tears his eyes away from the darkening vault of sky to look at Hisoka. His voice is an ocean and Hisoka drowns in it as he tells him: “No.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ! Um. I'm not really happy with how I ended this, but I just don't really have the energy to fix this anymore lmao. I'm 99% sure you can tell when exactly I gave up with this fic ha,,,ha... ,


End file.
